Wants

She is a mother, a green shoot

of a boy I hear--

three decades of water under a bridge

I think we never should have built.

Could he have been mine,

this boy? No,

I gave her much, but never

that much, not what it would seem

she actually wanted.

My wife has aches of a different kind:

arrhythmic spears, tintinnabulation, gastric

remorse for the unimaginative pantry

I inhabit. Her spices

warm but never completely

thaw scars of the first hunger--

words words words

words words

words...

I would write my way

through accusations

of no real heart for life

outside the ephemeral bits

of self expression--

if allowed?

I could speak of you

as though I am of you,

as if what I am given

is enough to satisfy my urge

to live free from words

words words...

Ken e Bujold

© 2022

Author's Note

more brooding

Reviews

[Lorry]

I quite like living in the ephemeral world, where whispers are heard, but comments aren't asked for. It is what I imagine it would be like to be a ghost, but the Caspar kind, not the scary pants kind. 😉👻😉
Your piece has itched my think part of the brain, with "why are there so many bridges in life for all that water to pass under? It makes it inevitable that we will all live with regrets.
Now I'm away to brood about being nearer the coffin than the cot, say things like" the young 'ins of today, blah! " and wait for the post to bring me more unsolicited, but real life spam 😊.
Blah! 😊

[Ken e Bujold]

love the image of closer to the coffin than the cot, may borrow it sometime. The question of bridges, I cant answer, been asking it a long long time

[Lorry]

Ha, no problem. All those bridges only really answer one thing... Hover cars are gonna be a while longer yet, just like the hover boots I was promised as a kid by those futureologist liars 😊

[softlyfall]

Within the comment, lies a poem

[John the Baptist]

Water under a bridge should be allowed to flow back into the sea. The lives of poets' wives, however, are current, and should be addressed. Sadly, though, they will always play second fiddle to words, words, words.

[Ken e Bujold]

They shouldn;t really. I know what you are saying though John. I do my damnest to not let them get in way of my wife, though when I am honest I will admit, my moods can. Difference 4 me in the first too verses, is the guy I was was a selfish prick, the guy I am now is a prick by times, but much more aware of what he has and is ever so thankful for the love in my life. The last verse is my acknowledgement that there are bits of me (of everyone) that are so personal they cannot, by their very nature, be shared

Ken

[Neville]

I have said it before, but I now feel compelled to state it again here .. this is a fine example of why I first fell in love with poetry .. all my boxes are now well n truly ticked :) Neville

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you once again good friend for the kindness of a touching review and encouragement to carry on with the act of scribbling

[softlyfall]

This has a heavy weight. I read it again, looking for the silver lining. At first I thought there was none, that your poem is just very sad and full of regret but then I suddenly realized- it is the poem that matters. And though through the entire poem you decry "words words words", they are precisely what wraps meaningfulness around the suffering, in whatever degree.
"the poem's the thing wherein I'll catch the heart of the poet" (wildly paraphrased, forgive me Shakespeare)

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you for such thoughtful analysis Soft. There is a hope in this poem, if peeps care to dig for it. It is, from my perspective, 3 phases of a life. The 1st love, the middle love, and the self love. In all three there is a certain self criticism, not loathing, just awareness of who what I am was. But there is also a dogged determination to get on with what it is I do. Words are my metaphor for living, for understanding as best I can the world around me. I am not perfect, who is? But I have the love of a great woman in my life. Perhaps not with the heated passion of a 20 something, but with the much greater and more important to me, passion of a life shared through all its tribulations. My Muse (her real name by the way) is my centrality in this world. Through my swings and misses she is there. and I recognize that each and every day, even when my poetry may be black as hell. If you want to see how bright it can be, read my poems to her. all include in one form or another her name
ken

[softlyfall]

I would love to read those, then I will no longer worry if you are happy

[Ken e Bujold]

go through my writing, anything with Musica or some derivative of it is for her, as well as "The Peach Preservist" and "stewing stones"

[Gee]

I would like to borrow your muse for a while to see if she can squeeze a few words from me.
Tis good to see several "proper" poets back at the cafe can only help to improve those of us that wish to do so :)

[Ken e Bujold]

Sorry Gee, mine's a one poet inspirer.
As for the compliment of a "proper" poet, what can I say other than you are to kind. The accolade is greatly appreciated and an honor I hope to live up to
ken

[W. Barrett Munn]

+1 for finding a way to work Poe's word, tintinnabulation into a poem. Now, if you could have just found a line for periplum you could have had the daily double! If you can work both into the same line-they will take you away in a straightjacket.

Paraphrasing, water under a bridge we should not have built is a great word picture. I will most likely steal that sometime in my life - surely by accident, and, I know, don't call you Shirley. Fine, Ken.

Winston the bridge builder.

[Ken e Bujold]

no such thing as stealing in poetry, merely borrowing without permission :)

[W. Barrett Munn]

My thinking Zactly!

[Miss Sharon]

(I would write my way through accusations of no real heart for life) My thoughts to a T. Great writing. ~Sharon

[Ken e Bujold]

thank you kindly Sharon, happy you found a little something in my brooding